The Heirloom Murders (13 page)

“Roelke,” Marie called. She was holding the phone. “There’s a couple of kids skateboarding on Chinaberry Circle. Mrs. Lennox is afraid they’ll get hit by a car.”

Chinaberry Circle was a cul-de-sac at the end of one of the quietest residential streets in the village. In the county, likely. But Mrs. Lennox called the station at least once a week. She’d once called for help after a junco stunned itself by flying into her kitchen window.

Maybe I
should
go back to Milwaukee, Roelke thought.

But … no. He’d thought that through. Made his choices. He was where he wanted to be.

“I got it,” he told Marie, and reached for the car keys.

When his shift ended
Roelke didn’t really
decide
to drive to Chloe’s house. He just sort of found his truck headed in that direction. Early evening’s soft light muted the landscape’s colors as he drove the twisting road through the Kettle Moraine.

When he pulled into Chloe’s driveway, he was relieved to see only her old Pinto in the driveway. No sign of Alpine Boy. But … that only meant the problem was avoided, not erased. He set his jaw. Chloe needed to decide who she wanted to spend time with, dammit. Maybe he should just say so. He’d been patient. He didn’t deserve to be—

Chloe stepped out on the front porch to meet him. She wore faded jeans and a shapeless red T-shirt, an off-hand combination that struck him as incredibly hot.

He struggled to keep his mind where it belonged. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t call first, but … anyway. Can I come in?”

“I suppose so.” Chloe opened the screened door and gestured him inside. “Watch out for Olympia. She has a habit of getting underfoot.” Hearing her name, the kitten shot from the kitchen. Her trajectory altered when she spotted a fly banging against one of the windows.

“Why did you name her Olympia?”

“Olympia Brown was a Unitarian minister. I think she was the first woman to be formally ordained, back in the 1860s or ’70s. She served in Wisconsin.”

Roelke had never heard of Olympia Brown. Or Unitarians. He silently trailed Chloe into the living room.

The farmhouse Chloe rented was huge for one person, but it had finally taken on some identity: books on the shelves, a colorful rag rug on the floor. It was a curator’s space—a canning jar on the windowsill held wildflowers, an old iron did bookend duty, and a painted trunk served as her coffee table. The personal items she’d chosen to display included a cobalt bowl of stones, a hummingbird’s nest displayed in a crystal shot glass, a huge pinecone.

“Those can’t be easy to dust,” Roelke said, gesturing toward the treasures.

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Could you be any more German?”

Roelke ignored that, his attention caught by mementos of Switzerland—a cuckoo clock, a delicate alpine scene silhouette cut from black paper, several photographs that showed pretty chalets with overflowing window boxes. A record playing on the stereo suggested people in ethnic costumes dancing to the bouncy strains of fiddle and accordion. If someone starts yodeling, Roelke thought, I’m outta here.

Chloe dropped into her brown easy chair. “Did you want something?”

Roelke perched on the edge of her sofa. “Look, I don’t like the way things got left the night you got attacked. And I didn’t mean to ignore you at the funeral. I was watching Sabatola, that’s all.”

“Oh.” She studied him for a moment. Some of the tension seemed to drain from her posture. “OK.”

Relieved, Roelke leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Listen, I’m keeping a sharp eye on Dellyn’s place. The other guys are, too.”

“Good,” Chloe said fervently. “It makes me sick to think that Dellyn might stumble across whoever it was that tried to bash me in the skull.”

“Yeah.”

“I was about to start supper when I heard your truck,” she said. “You want to stay?”

“What’s on the menu?”

“Popcorn and Oreos.”

“
Chloe
—”

“Oh, lighten up, would you?” She got up and headed toward the kitchen. “How about lentil stew and a tossed salad?”

He followed her. “I have known you to skip meals altogether,” he observed defensively. “I wouldn’t be surprised if—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Chloe filled a pot with water and put it on the stove.

“Can I help?”

“No, thanks, I’ve got it.” She disappeared behind the refrigerator door, then emerged holding a bulb of garlic and an onion.

Roelke leaned against the wall and watched her work. “Is Dellyn doing OK?”

Chloe used the back of her knife to sweep translucent bits of onion into a bowl. “She’s running on empty. She’s talking about packing up and moving away. Somewhere.”

“I’m sure you’d miss her.”

“I would.” Chloe minced the final slices. “And it would be a terrible loss for Old World, too.”

Roelke was still staring at Chloe’s hands. Her fingers were long, slender, graceful even as they chopped the garlic. “Well, she’s just a gardener, right?”

Chloe straightened. “Just a gardener? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Oh, hell. “Nothing! It’s just that … well, I’m sure Dellyn is a really
good
gardener, but lots of people are, right? If she did leave—I mean, I know you’d miss your friend—but it wouldn’t be all that hard to find someone else to—”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Chloe snapped. “Dellyn is in charge of a dozen gardens, which represent a variety of ethnic groups, 1845 to 1915. She has to know what varieties of vegetables Finlanders planted in the cutover up north, and what progressive Yankee housewives planted in the southeast corner of the state.”

“OK, I get it.”

“She needs to find and propagate heirloom varieties of vegetables and fruits and flowers for each specific garden. She needs to consider whether German-speaking immigrants from Pomerania planted their gardens differently than German-speaking immigrants from Hesse-Darmstadt. She needs to understand how to control pests using historical methods. She needs to work with the interpreters to be sure the gardens support the foodways program. And then she needs to develop programs to help visitors understand the implications of—”

“O-
kay!
” Roelke held up both hands. “I don’t know what I’m talking about. I
get
it.” And Alpine Boy, no doubt, would have gotten it from the start.

The awkward silence between them was broken by the tiny hiss of steam as the water on the stove began to simmer. Roelke’s gaze fell on a line of bird feathers arrayed on a shelf of cookbooks. He picked up a crimson plume. Cardinal, surely. “Where did you get this?”

“The back yard. Why?”

“Did you know it’s illegal to have songbird feathers in your possession?”

Chloe’s eyes narrowed. Her mouth got tight. Her chin jutted forward. “Why are you being such an asshole?”

Roelke didn’t answer. He had no idea why he was being such an asshole.

“I think you should leave now.” She crossed her arms over her chest, the big knife still clutched in one fist.

Roelke opened his mouth, closed it again, and departed.

_____

Once Roelke’s truck had disappeared, Chloe turned off the stove. “Shit,” she muttered. She paced for a few moments, then went to the telephone and dialed a familiar number. “Ethan? It’s me. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, it’s good, actually. I’m probably going to get called out in the next day or so. Looks like we’ve got a bad one in Montana.”

“Oh.” Ethan was a fire jumper. Scary stuff. “Well, I just called to announce that I hate men.”

Pause. “Does that pronouncement include me?”

Chloe pulled her feet up on the cushion. “Unless you are prepared to skip the fire, fly to Milwaukee tonight, drive out here, and marry me, then you, too are on my list.”

“What’s going on?”

“Roelke just left. I swear, Ethan, we can’t get through a conversation without fighting.”

“Why?”

OK, a person about to drop into an inferno didn’t have time to waste on the extraneous. “He … he just doesn’t
get
me, Ethan. He doesn’t get what I do. I’m worried about my friend Dellyn, and Roelke just blew it off.” OK, that wasn’t quite fair. “He blew off the importance of her job, anyway. He has no idea …” Her voice trailed away as it occurred to her that Ethan, her dearest friend in the world, wouldn’t understand the demands of Dellyn’s job either. Chloe leaned her head back against the chair, and closed her eyes.

“How did you react to that?”

Chloe was beginning to wish she hadn’t called. “Well … I may have overreacted. Just a little bit.” She hadn’t been fair. She didn’t know the ins-and-outs of police work. Why should she be angry—or even surprised—because Roelke didn’t understand historic site work?

“Listen, sweetie, I can’t sort this out for you. If being with Roelke makes you happy, spend time with him. If it doesn’t, don’t.”

“It sounds so simple when you put it like that.”

Ethan laughed, his voice warm and comforting through the wire. “Easy for me to say, hunh?”

“Tell me about you. Tell me about the fire.”

They talked for ten minutes more before hanging up. The world beyond her windows was blurring into blue-black shadows. Olympia had fallen asleep on the carpet. Chloe sat, thinking about Roelke and Markus. Thinking about Dellyn.

All through college and grad school, Chloe had taken a different summer job each year. She loved seasonal work. She loved heading to new places. Going to Switzerland had been the grandest adventure of them all. Markus had done a terrible thing by dumping her when she needed him most. But before her miscarriage, she had never felt a need to press for any kind of commitment, either.

Her miscarriage had started a hellish year, but she’d pulled herself out of it. With lots of help from Ethan, and even some from Roelke, she’d turned her emotional corner. She had almost lost her job at Old World Wisconsin … but not quite. She and Ralph Petty would never get along well, but she was truly trying to get through probation, and to lock down the job for good. A real job. A permanent job, with health insurance and everything.

And sometimes, that made her feel old. Was she losing something special? Would having a stable relationship make her feel better about herself right now, or worse?

“I have no freaking idea,” Chloe told Olympia. “Let’s go make dinner.” Before she could move, the phone’s jangle made her jump.

“It’s Markus,” her ex said. “I wanted to give you one more chance to come along when I go back to see the Frietags.”

The Frietags, some wise and wonderful elderly people. “Yeah,” Chloe told him. “I’d like that.”

The next morning Roelke
was in Waukesha by 8 AM, with a couple of hours free before his shift started. He parked in front of Alex Padopolous’s last-known residence. The tired brick building had been divided into flats, but several catalogs bursting from one of the mailboxes said
Alex Padopolous, 1A
in the address line.

Roelke’s knock went unanswered. No surprise there. If Alex Padopolous was still living on the wild side, there was a good chance that he was either hung-over at this hour or reluctant to open the door to a cop. Roelke banged again.

“He’s gone.”

Roelke turned and regarded an elderly woman shuffling down the sidewalk with the tiniest Chihuahua he’d ever seen. Her hair was in curlers, which wasn’t as common on the streets as it used to be.

“Are you referring to Alex Padopolous, ma’am?” He joined her on the sidewalk, keeping a wary eye on the dog. Chihuahuas weren’t called ankle-biters for nothing.

“Is he in some kind of trouble?” The woman pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her pocket.

“No ma’am. I just want to talk with him.”

She lit up, inhaled, and blew a long plume of smoke. “Well, I haven’t seen him for two days.”

Two days, hunh? Roelke thought that over. “Is that unusual?”

“Oh, yes. Noisiest neighbor I’ve ever had. Usually he’s booming his music at all hours, drinking beer on the porch with his buddies. I hope he’s gone for good.”

“Do you happen to know where Mr. Padopolous works?”

“Ace Auto Repair, two blocks down. I heard Padopolous lost his license for a while, had to walk to work.” The woman shook her head. “Too bad there’s a handful of taverns within walking distance, too.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Roelke said politely. “I appreciate your help.” He watched the woman resume her walk, with the Chihuahua pattering along beside her. Nosy neighbors, he thought. Gotta love ’em.

Next stop, Ace Auto Repair. It was a busy shop, with a car on all three lifts and every parking space full. Roelke’s uniform brought the owner from a back corner, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “Alex Padopolous?” he barked, in response to Roelke’s question. “Shit.”

“Is there some problem, sir?”

“Damn straight there’s a problem. Hasn’t showed up for work for the last two days. Didn’t even call in.”

The other mechanic on duty began loosening a Chevy’s lug nuts with an impact wrench. Roelke shouted, “Has he been a reliable employee in the past?”

“Been late a bunch of times. Knew his way around an engine, though, so I’ve been willing to give him a chance. But this shit? Unless he’s got a damn good excuse, I’m gonna fire his sorry ass.”

“Thanks for your time,” Roelke said. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

He headed back to Eagle. Alex Padopolous had been AWOL for two days. That meant he’d disappeared right about the time someone had almost killed Chloe in Dellyn Burke’s barn.

Forty minutes later Roelke pulled back into Sonia Padopolous’s driveway. Time to pay Mama another visit.

This time Sonia answered the front door, and greeted him with a startled “Oh!” She did not invite him in. Or offer him cookies, thank God.

Roelke gave her his polite cop smile. “I’m sorry to bother you again, Mrs. Padopolous. May I come inside?”

“Is something wrong?” She kept her body wedged in the small opening she’d created when opening the door.

“I don’t know, ma’am. I had hoped to speak to your son this morning. But Alex’s neighbors and his boss haven’t seen him in two days.”

“Why do you want to speak to Alex?” Sonia’s voice quavered.

“I need to ask him some questions. When was the last time you saw him?”

“Saw Alex? Well, let me think.” She stared over his shoulder for a moment, as if a response required a mighty effort. “A week or so ago, I guess. Closer to two. I was running some errands in Waukesha and stopped by his apartment.”

“Have you spoken to him since then? Has he telephoned?”

She shook her head emphatically. “No. That’s not unusual. He … he gets busy.”

“Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“No.”

“Do you have the names of any friends I might call?”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry. I—I really can’t help you.” Sonia closed the door. The deadbolt rattled, as if she feared Roelke might follow her.

Well, hunh, Roelke thought, as he headed back to the squad car. Sonia Padopolous was a terrible liar.

_____

That evening, Chloe took one last look around the living room. Flat surfaces swiped with a dust cloth, kitten toys mostly returned to their basket—check. Fresh-baked cheese straws, chocolate-dipped strawberries, napkins, and wine goblets arrayed on the trunk/coffee table—check.

When Libby had talked Chloe into joining the little “wine and whine” writers’ circle, she’d been dubious. To her surprise, she actually enjoyed the gatherings. At their last meeting Chloe had impulsively offered to host. It was the first time she’d hosted any gathering since leaving Switzerland. She didn’t want to go nuts. But it would be nice if the evening went well.

Besides, Valerie Bing was coming. She and the writing group members would be getting acquainted, but Chloe wanted to find out what Valerie might know about the Eagle Diamond that had
not
made it into her article.

She slapped her palms on her jeans. “I think we’re good to go,” she told Olympia.

Olympia urped a hairball onto the carpet. Chloe had just enough time to clean up before the first car pulled into the driveway.

Fifteen minutes later the regulars were settled in: Libby, who earned her living as a freelance writer; Hilda, retired schoolteacher and poet; and Gina, a plump mother-of-three who wrote science fiction novels. “Is Dellyn coming?” Gina asked.

Libby shook her head. “I tried to talk her into it.”

“How about you?” Gina asked Chloe. “Do you have anything to share this time?”

“No,” Chloe said guiltily. She had been well into her first historical novel when she lived in Switzerland, but she’d burned it when she and Markus broke up. “Want a strawberry?”

Hilda looked over pale blue half-glasses reprovingly. “Writers write, Chloe. You can revise bad writing. You can’t do anything with blank pages.”

“I know.” Chloe handed her a glass of Chablis. “Oh, look! That must be Valerie pulling in.”

Valerie Bing was tall and willowy, with honey-colored hair clipped back with a red barrette. The barrette completed an
ensemble
: jeans so stylish they could only be designer, a scarlet linen jacket over matching tank, and red high-heeled pumps.
Very
high, Chloe thought, trying not to stare. And pointy-toed. Ouch.

“Welcome,” Libby said, once introductions were made. “Glad you could join us. You’re new to the area, right?”

“Newly returned,” Valerie allowed, as she perched on the edge of an armchair. “I grew up near here. Eagle, actually. But I moved to Manhattan after college.”

Gina wriggled, settling more comfortably into the sofa. “So, what brought you back to Wisconsin?”

“A divorce. And since you’re no doubt wondering, here it is: Four months ago I was assistant editor at
Stylish Women
magazine. I also had a brand-spanking-new MFA in Poetry. Then my marriage fell apart, I was publicly humiliated, I ended up with nothing but a lot of student loans, and I moved back into my parents’ house. Yes, my
parents’
house.”

Libby, Hilda, and Gina met that recital with the raised eyebrows and blank expressions of people who have no idea what to say.

OK, Chloe thought. Inviting Valerie here was a bad idea. And it was
my
idea. Me, the new kid in the group, already on thin ice for never bringing any writing to share. And on top of that, this bristling urbanite seemed an unlikely source of detailed information about the Eagle Diamond. Lovely.

Libby broke the awkward silence. “Did you bring pages to share?”

“Two new poems. Chloe said you’re a mixed-genre group.”

“Two poems will suffice,” Hilda said primly. “Let’s get to work.”

_____

Roxie’s Roost looked a little seedier than Roelke remembered it. The frame building could use a fresh coat of paint. The neon Blatz sign in the front window was missing its final two letters. BLA
,
the sign promised, with ironic humor. Roelke’s old red-and-white Ford Ranger pickup didn’t have an NRA or Ducks Unlimited sticker, just one for Milwaukee’s Summerfest. But he gauged it inconspicuous enough to blend in anyway.

This will probably prove to be a huge waste of time, Roelke thought, as he opened the front door. He couldn’t imagine Edwin Guest frequenting the place. And even if Guest liked to leave high business society behind and relax with a cold one every week, he wasn’t likely to turn blubbering informant. The secretary would probably realize that Roelke had seen the notation on his calendar, get even more pissed than he generally seemed to be, and leave again.

Well, so what? Sometimes it was good to stir things up and simply see what happened.

Once inside Roelke took a quick visual survey. The L-shaped bar stretched most of the length of the dim room. A couple guys wearing the bright orange vests of road construction workers sat at the middle of the bar, arguing about the Milwaukee Brewers’ chances of making the playoffs. A few patrons hunched over beers at tables. Five older women were engrossed in an animated game of Sheepshead. The room smelled of cigarette smoke and fried onions.

“Can I help you?”

Roelke turned toward the woman behind the bar, and hoped he hid his surprise. He’d seen her before. At Bonnie Sabatola’s funeral. Arguing with Simon Sabatola in the parking lot.

Holy toboggans. This was already interesting.

“Sure,” he told her. “Miller Draft. And a glass of water.” He slouched toward the long bar, and took the stool beside the wall.

The woman filled a glass stein and put it down in front of him. Her eyes held no hint of recognition. And why would they? He’d
been wearing a suit at the funeral, and now was dressed in his
oldest jeans and a faded T-shirt. And at the funeral, this woman had clearly been interested only in Simon Sabatola.

Roelke fished a five from his pocket. “Are you Roxie?”

“That’s me.” She slid a dish of peanuts his way. “You new around here?”

Her words had the intonation of someone asking an obligatory question. She sounded tired. Looked it, too. Blue Christmas-type lights twinkled above the bar, but even in that sallow light Roxie had the look of a woman who’d lived hard. Her skin was crinkled, her eyes narrowed, her shoulders bowed.

“I live in Palmyra.” Roelke echoed her tone of polite disinterest. Requirements complete, Roxie left him alone.

Roelke sat sideways on the stool, back to the wall, left cheek propped on his left hand. He consciously mimicked the posture of a thousand drunks he’d seen in too many bars, trying to drown sorrows real and imagined. And I do have a few sorrows of my own, he thought, as an hour inched by without anything else of interest presenting itself. His love life was in the crapper. His professional life might be too, if the Police Committee chose to give the permanent position to Skeet. If only—

The door opened. Roelke slid his gaze in that direction as Simon Sabatola sauntered inside. The screened door slapped closed behind him.

Sabatola! Not Guest. Curiouser and curiouser. Roelke looked back at the remains of his carefully nursed beer. Sabatola settled on the bar stool farthest away from him.

Roxie folded her arms and stood for a long moment, staring at Sabatola. Evidently she was still pissed about whatever they’d argued about in the parking lot. Finally, unasked, she poured a glass of whiskey and deposited it in front of Sabatola.

Roelke watched the pair for the next hour or so. Roxie tended to other customers as needed, but in quiet moments she gravitated toward the far end of the bar. Her back was to Roelke, but her posture remained rigid. Roelke couldn’t make out anything over the increasingly boisterous conversation between the road crew workers, but from what he could see of Sabatola’s face, the businessman wasn’t nearly as upset about
whatever
as the bartender was.

So … what does that tell you? he asked himself. Squat, actually, interesting as it was. Sabatola was involved with this woman in some way. An affair? Roxie didn’t seem like Sabatola’s type—but maybe that was the attraction.

“Tens take Kings,” one of the card players said loudly. Roelke watched a young woman across the room stack dirty glasses on a tray, thinking. Maybe getting it on with a struggling tavern keeper represented something exciting for Sabatola. And maybe Bonnie had discovered that. If Bonnie was already struggling with depression and marital problems, learning of an affair might have pushed her over the edge.

He had no way to prove that little theory, though. And last time he checked, adultery wasn’t a felony.

Sabatola had tossed back at least three whiskeys before he needed to visit the can. As he passed Roelke, Sabatola paused. “Officer McKenna?”

Roelke sighed audibly, looked up, and made a show of registering surprise. “Oh—Mr. Sabatola! Excuse me, sir, I didn’t realize it was you.”